A PAST MASTER DRAWS CARDS
Back on the CL the foreman was worried about his new, two-gun man, and
had almost made up his mind to order the outfit into the saddle and to
lead it up into the Twin Buttes country to aid Johnny. While he was
turning the matter over in his mind he entered the bunk-house and saw
Luke Tedrue, the oldest man on the ranch, dressed in a clean shirt, new
trousers, and a pair of new boots. Luke looked surprisingly clean and
he was busily engaged in cleaning and oiling the parts of an old .44
caliber Remington six-shooter, one of those early models which had been
transformed from its original cap-and-ball class into a weapon shooting
center-fire cartridges. It had been the butt of many joking remarks and
the old man cherished it, and had defended it in many a hot, verbal
skirmish. Considering its age and use it was in a remarkably fine state
of preservation.
Luke had played many parts in his day, for he had been a hunter,
frontiersman, scout, pony-express rider, miner, and cavalryman, and as
an Indian fighter he had admitted but few masters. Tough, wiry, shrewd,
enduring, of flawless courage and bulldog tenacity of purpose, he had
behind him long years of experience; and his appearance of age was as
deceptive as the pose of a basking rattler.
The lessons of such a long, precarious, and daring life as he had led
were not easily ignored, and now as a cow-puncher, riding out his
declining days on the range, there were certain habits which clung to
him with the strength of instinct. One of these was his faith in a
weapon almost universally condemned on the range. It mattered nothing
to him that times and conditions had changed; he had proved its worth
in years of fighting, and now he refused to lay it aside. There had
been a day when Bowie's terrible weapon had entered largely into the
life of the long frontier.
Logan, worried and preoccupied as he was, could not keep from smiling
at the old man's patient labor.
"Luke, you waste more time an' elbow grease on that worn-out old relic
than most people do with _real_ guns. Th' whole outfit, put together,
don't pamper their six-guns th' way you do that contraption. Why don't
you throw it away an' get a _good_ gun?"
Luke snorted, and screwed the walnut butt-plates into place. Then he
slipped the cylinder into position, slid the pin through it, swung up
the old ramrod lever and snapped it into its catch under the barrel.
Spinning the cylinder, he weighed the heavy weapon affectionately, and
looked up.
Luke grunted. "Huh! Mebby that's why old Betsy is a better gun today
than any in this outfit. Why should I get a new one? This old Rem. has
been a cussed good friend of mine. She's never balked nor laid down,
an' she puts 'em where she's pointed. An old friend like her ain't
goin' to rust if I can help it."
"Rust?" inquired Logan, chuckling. "Why, there ain't been enough
moisture in th' air lately to rust anything, let alone any gun that's
as full of grease an' oil as that contraption. Wait till th' rainy
season hits us before you worry about rust. An' what are you all
dressed up for? When I saw you this mornin' you was th' dirtiest man
on th' ranch; an' now you fair shines! Ain't aimin' to go an' hitch up
with no female, are you?"
Luke shoved home the last greasy cartridge, snapped shut the hinged
flange, laid the gun aside, and pointed to a pile of wet clothing on
the floor near his bunk.
"There ain't no female livin' can put a rope on me no more," he
grinned. "See them clothes? I done fell in th' crick. Some slab-sided
nuisance shifted th' planks an' was too lazy to put 'em back right.
They tip sideways. I got half way acrost an' up she turns. Lost my
balance an' lit belly-whopper. But I put 'em back just like I found
'em."
"An' you'll get an innercent man."
"There ain't none in this outfit," grunted Luke. He searched the
foreman's face with shrewd eyes. "John, worryin' never did help a man.
Get shet of it, or it'll get shet of you."
"Easy said, Ol' Timer; but it ain't so easy done," replied Logan.
Luke kicked his wet holster toward the clothes and took down one
belonging to someone else, and calmly appropriated it, belt and all.
"Two most generally splits a load about in half," he observed, shoving
the gun into the sheath. "An' it allus helps a lot to talk things over
with somebody."
"Well, I ain't heard a word from Nelson since he left that note tellin'
me where he was goin' an' for me not to bother about our five-day
arrangement; an' he shore started off to wrastle with trouble."
"Huh!" snorted Luke grimly. "Dunno as I'd do much worryin' about him.
Real active, capable hombre, he is. Chain lightnin', an' an eye like a
hawk. A few years more an' he'll steady down an' get sensible. Lord,
what a fool _I_ was at his age! Beats all how young men ever live long
enough to become old ones."
"But he's been gone a month," replied Logan. "It's been two weeks since
I heard from him, an' longer. He's playin' a lone hand ag'in them
fellers, an' it ain't no one-man job, not by a d--d sight! He was to
find out certain things an' then come back here an' report. Why ain't
he got back?"
"Busy, mebby," grunted Luke. "I have an idea th' job would keep one man
purty tolerable busy, with one thing an' another turning up. He don't
want to get seen an' tip off his hand; an' keepin' under cover takes
time."
"I should 'a' taken th' outfit up there an' combed th' hills,
regardless what anybody said about squarin' up old scores."
"What you should 'a' done, an' what you _did_ do don't track," replied
Luke. "An' I ain't shore that you oughta 'a' busted loose like that
a-tall. It's a good thing most generally to know where yo're goin' to
light before you jump. What you should 'a' done was to 'a' sent me up
there, either alone or with him. 'Tain't too late to deal me a hand.
Where'd he say he was goin'?"
"West of Twin Buttes. But if you go it'll be a one-man job again, an' I
don't like it."
"Uh-huh!" chuckled Luke. "That's just what it is; an' I _do_ like it. I
drove stage, carried dispatches through Injun country, an' was th' boss
scout for th' two best army officers that ever fit Injuns. Reckon mebby
if th' Injuns couldn't lift my scalp, no gang of thievin' cow-punchers
can skin it off. An' I'm cussed tired of punchin' cows. I ain't no
puncher by nature, hopes, or inclinations. I'm a scout, _I_ am; an'
I'm goin' up there somewhere west of th' Twins an' find Nelson, if he's
still alive, get them facts an' bring 'em back."
"I don't like th' idea," muttered Logan.
"Huh! I ain't got them fool notions that Nelson has. I ain't no
Christian when I'm on a war trail. He worries about givin' th' other
feller an even break; but I worries if I lets him have it. Greasers,
thieves, an' Injuns--they're all alike; an' they don't get no even
break from me if I can help it. I puts th' worryin' right up to them.
I'll bet he's alive, an' workin' all th' time; but he ain't got no
chance to get quick results; an' it's his own handicappin', too. When
a man's scoutin' around a whole passel of rustlers, a gun has got its
limits. Gimme a pair of moccasins an' ol' Colonel Bowie."
"I likes you purty much; but d--d if I thinks much of any man that uses
a knife!"
Luke laughed grimly and got the knife from his bunk. "There he is. He
don't make a man no deader than a bullet; an' he don't make no noise.
There ain't nothin' handier in a mix-up--an' a good man can drive it
straight as any bullet, too. I'm gettin' het up considerable about all
this palaver about this knife an' me; an' I'm goin' to lick th' next
man that rides me about it. It's a' honest weapon. It was ground out
of a two-inch hoof file, an' when it cuts through th' air it takes
considerable to stop it. When I was younger I could send it so far into
a two-inch plank that you could feel th' pint of it on th' other side.
Just feel th' heft an' balance of that blade!"
"Feel it yoreself!" snapped Logan. "That ain't fair fightin'; an' if
you don't like that, you can start in here an' now an' lick me."
"I never said I was a fair fighter," grinned Luke, slipping the weapon
into a scabbard sewed to the inside of his boot; "but old as I am, I
can put yore shoulders in th' dust. We'll argue instead. Them fellers
ain't fair fighters; they dassn't be even if they wanted to be; an'
when I'm tanglin' up with 'em I ain't polite a-tall. I just fights,
knife, gun, teeth, hands, feet, an' head, any way as comes handy.
That's why I'm still alive, too. Now I'm goin' up somewhere west of
th' Buttes an' look around from there; an' Colonel Bowie goes with me,
right where he is. Tell th' cook to give me what grub I wants. An' I
reckon I better take Nelson some ca'tridges an' tobacco."
"Tell him yoreself; an' if he won't do it, I'll tell you who moved th'
planks," grinned Logan. "But I hate to see you go alone."
"An' I'd hate to have anybody along," grunted Luke. "I'll be busy
enough takin' care of myself without botherin' with a fool puncher."
The old scout sauntered into the kitchen. "Mat, you sage hen; th' next
time you shifts them planks, put a stone under th' edges that don't
touch th' ground. You near drownded me in three inches of water an' a
foot of mud. Now you gimme a chunk of bacon, couple pounds of flour,
three pounds of beans, couple of pounds of that rice, 'though I ain't
real fascinated by it, couple handfuls of coffee, handful of salt,
an' a pound of tobacco. I may be gone a couple of months an' get real
hungry. Nope; no canned grub. I want this fryin' pan, that tin cup, an'
a fork."
He sniffed eagerly and strode to a covered pan. "Beans, ready cooked!
Mat, you was hidin' them! Dump some of 'em into a cloth--now I won't
have to cook my first couple of meals. Stick all th' stuff in a sack,
them on top," and he hurried out.
Fifteen minutes later Logan entered Mat's domain. "Where's Luke? What,
already? Must 'a' been scared I'd change my mind. Why, he left his pipe
an' smokin' behind," pointing at the table.
Mat grinned. "He says a smoker can't smell, an' gets smelled. An' he
says for somebody to go up to Little Canyon for his bronc. He's leavin'
it there tonight, hobbled. An' take that pipe out of here; I don't want
them beans ruined."
Luke was crossing the CL range at a gallop, anxious to cross the
river and get past the Hope-Hastings trail before dark. Reaching the
Deepwater he forced his indignant horse into it and emerged, chilled,
on the farther bank. Hobbling the animal, he put his boots on the
saddle, slipped on a pair of moccasins, fastened the pack on his back
and swung into the canyon, his mind busily forming a mental map of the
country.
Placing Hope at one end and Hastings at the other, he connected them by
the trail, putting in the Deepwater, the Barrier, and Twin Buttes.
"They comes to Hastings 'stead of Hope, which says Hastings is nearest.
He said west of Twin Buttes. Then I'll start at th' Buttes an' go west
till I find his trail; an' if I don't find it, I'll circle 'round till
I finds _something_! I'd know that black cayuse's tracks in a hundred.
"Logan sent Nelson up here because nobody knowed him an' that he was
workin' for us. Huh! What good will it do 'em to know a man if they
never see him? An' they won't see me, 'less I wants 'em to. That water
feels colder than it ought to--reckon I'm gettin' old. I shore ain't as
young as I uster be. Got to move lively to get thawed out an' dry these
clothes."
Crossing the main trail after due observation, he saw an old and
well-worn trail leading westward into a deep valley.
"Huh! Hit it first shot. You just can't beat luck!"
Choosing the cover along one side of the smaller trail, he melted into
it and plunged westward, swinging along with easy, lazy strides that
covered ground amazingly and with a minimum of effort. His long legs
swung free from his hips, the hips rolling into the movement; his knees
were rather stiff and as his feet neared the ground at the end of each
stride he pushed them ahead a little more before they touched. This was
where the swaying hips gave him an added thrust of inches. And like all
natural, sensible walkers, his toes turned in.
Night was coming on when he neared Twin Buttes and a rifle shot in
their direction drew a chuckle from him. Throwing off the pack he ate
his fill of Mat's cooked beans, shoved the wrapped-up remainder into
his shirt, hid the pack and slipped into the deeper shadows, his rifle
on his back, the old Remington in one hand and Colonel Bowie lying
along the other, its handle up his sleeve and the keen point extending
beyond his fingers.
A coyote might have heard him moving, but the task was beyond human
ears; and after a few minutes he stopped suddenly and sniffed. The
faint odor of a fire told him that he was getting close to a camp, and
a moment later a distant flare lit up the tree-tops in the canyon
proper. Looking down he noticed the buckle of his belt, thought that
it was too bright, and wrapped a bandanna handkerchief around it.
Slipping the six-shooter into its holster he moved forward again, bent
over, going swiftly and silently, his feet avoiding twigs, branches,
and pebbles as though he had eyes in his toes. Rounding the southern
Twin he melted into the darkness at the side of a bowlder and peered
cautiously over the rock.
A great, crackling fire sent its flames towering high in the air from
a little clearing at the lower end of a path which went up the side of
the butte and became lost in the darkness. Examining the scene with
shrewd, keen, and appraising eyes, he waited patiently. A burst of fire
darted from the top of the northern Twin and a strange voice jeered
softly in the distance. From the top of the southern butte came an
answering jeer in a voice which he instantly recognized.
"Treed, by G-d!" he chuckled gleefully. "Reckon he'll be tickled to see
me. Wonder how long he's been up there?"
A piece of wood curved into the circle of illumination and landed on
the blazing fire, sending a stream of sparks soaring up the mesa wall.
"There's Number Two," soliloquized Luke cheerfully, "feedin' th' fire
an' watchin' th' trail. Cuss him for a fool! Some of them sparks will
get loose, an' hell will be a nice, quiet place compared to this
canyon. Well, now I got to rustle around an' locate 'em all; an' this
ain't no place or time for no shootin', neither."
Half an hour later Fleming tossed more wood on the fire and settled
back to fight mosquitoes. A glittering streak shot through the air and
he crumpled without a sound. A shadow moved and a silent form wriggled
through the brush and among the bowlders and retrieved the knife, took
the dead man's weapons and wriggled back again. It slipped noiselessly
across the canyon, searched along the base of the northern Twin, found
the wide, up-slanting trail and flitted along it, pausing frequently
to look, sniff, and listen. Reaching the top of the butte, it wriggled
from bowlder to bowlder, ridge to ridge, systematically covering every
foot of the plateau, and steadily working nearer the southern rim.
Holbrook yawned, stretched, and yawned again. He picked up his rifle
and scowled into the canyon, where the fire engaged his critical
attention.
"That lazy cuss is lettin' it burn too low," he growled. "Wonder if
he's asleep!" He laughed and shook his head. "Nope; don't believe even
Art could sleep down there, with them mosquitoes pesterin' him. _This_
suits me, right here!"
He looked around uneasily. "I do so much layin' around out here in
daytime that I can't sleep nights," he grumbled, not willing to admit
that he felt uneasy. "Funny how a man's nerves will get hummin' when
he's on a job like this. It shore is monotonous." Looking around again,
he shifted so that he could see part of the mesa top behind him, and
tried to shake off the premonition of evil which persisted in haunting
him.
"How many cows you thieves sold so far?" called a voice from the other
butte.
"Nowhere near as many as we're goin' to get," retorted Holbrook,
laughing. "Changin' yore mind?" he jeered.
"Not me; I wouldn't work with no teethin' infants. I'd rather work
alone. I associates with _men, I_ do."
"You'll 'sociate with dead men purty soon," sneered Holbrook. "We got
you just where we--" the words choked into a gurgle and a lean, vague
figure moved slowly forward from behind a ridge.
"What's th' matter?" ironically demanded the man on the southern Twin.
"Swaller yore cigarette? That's a good thing. You want to practice
swallerin' hot things because tomorrow yo're goin' to swaller a
snub-nosed Special." Pausing, Johnny waited expectantly for an answer,
but receiving none, he grunted cheerfully. "All right; go to blazes!"
The fire burned lower and lower and Johnny became suspicious. If
the rustler on the other butte hoped to keep him engaged in snappy
conversation when the fire grew low, there was no telling what the man
in the canyon might do; so he crept to the top of the trail and peered
down it, scanning the wall intently, half expecting to glimpse some
swift, shadowy movement; but his alertness was not rewarded.
"Wonder how long Hoppy or Red would loaf on a game like this," he
grinned, "if they was down there! But there ain't many of their breed
runnin' around."
An hour passed and the fire was a mass of glowing embers, now and
then relieved by a spasmodic burst of flame, which flickered up and
died. Across the little clearing a shadowy form moved slowly backward,
chuckling softly. If there were any more rustlers around, one of them
certainly would have investigated why the fire was allowed to die; and
Luke felt quite confident that he had accounted for all of them who
were in the vicinity. Still, he argued, nothing was a certainty which
depended upon circumstantial evidence, and he did not relax his caution
as he moved away.
Johnny, straining his eyes in trying to discover signs of enemies on
the trail, suddenly stiffened, listening eagerly with every nerve
taut. Again came the voice, barely audible. Moving to the outer edge
of the butte he peered over cautiously, well knowing that he could see
nothing.
"'Tell Red his pants wear well,'" floated up to him out of the canyon.
Johnny moved a little and leaned farther over after a glance at the
black sky assured him that he would not be silhouetted for a marksman
below.
"'Does William, Junior, chew tobacco?'" persisted the whisper.
Johnny wriggled back and sat bolt upright, incredulous, doubting his
senses. "What th' devil!" he muttered. "Am I loco?"
"'We was scared he'd die,'" continued the canyon.
Taking another good look down the threatening trail, Johnny wriggled to
the edge and again looked down.
"'Pete paid Red th' eight dollars,'" said the chasm, a little louder
and with a note of irritation.
"Who th' devil are you?" demanded Johnny loudly.
"Not so loud. Luke Tedrue," whispered the darkness. "How many of them
skunks are around here?"
"Yo're a liar!" retorted Johnny angrily. "An' a fool!"
"Go to th' devil!" snapped the canyon.
"Come around in daylight an' I'll send you to him!" growled Johnny.
"Think I'm a fool?"
There was no answer, and, fearful of a trick, Johnny wriggled back to
his snug cover at the head of the trail, finding that the fire had
become only a dull, red mass of embers which gave out almost no light.
"You shore got me guessin'," he grumbled; "but I reckon mebby I'm
guessin' purty good, at that. You just try it, cuss you!"
Luke explored the canyon again to make assurance doubly sure, and again
approached the great wall.
"'Does William, Junior, chew tobacco?'" he demanded.
Johnny squirmed, but remained where he was. "You can't fool me!" he
shouted peevishly.
"Reckon not; yo're as wise as a jackass, a dead one," said Luke. "You
stubborn fool, listen to this; 'Don't look for no word from me. I'm
goin' west, to try it from back of Twin Buttes. They've drove me out.'"
The voice was plainer now. "How many of 'em are out here?"
Johnny grinned suddenly, for in the increase in the power of the voice
he recognized a friend.
"Hello, Luke, you old skunk!" he called, laughing. "Glad to see you.
There's four been hangin' around but there's only two now, or three at
th' most. Look out for 'em. Goin' to try to come up?"
"No, not a-tall," replied Luke. "There's enough of our outfit up there
now. I only found two of th' thieves, but th' third may be hid som'ers
well back, 'though I've shore hunted a-plenty."
"Found two?"
"Yep; one down here, an' t'other up there. Colonel Bowie pushed 'em
over th' Divide. Comin' down?"
"When that fire's out."
"How'd they come to drive you up there?"
"I come up myself. Couldn't watch while I slept; an' I had to sleep.
Now that there's two of us it's all right."
"You called th' turn. Get yore traps together an' I'll fix th' fire.
Where's yore cayuse?"
"Up here. Don't bother with th' fire. Be right down."
Half an hour later Johnny reached the bottom of the trail and paused.
"'Red's pants,'" said a humorous voice.
"Come on, Luke. We'll hold up somewhere an' get th' relief shift when
it comes out from th' ranch."
"Shore. Where's th' ranch?"
"'Bout three miles west; an' it's a cussed fine one, too."
"All right; get movin'. I want to dry out these pants. They must be all
cotton from th' way they feel. We'll go back a ways an' start a fire."
"No, we won't; too dangerous," growled Johnny decidedly. "We got this
game won right now if we don't let 'em know there's two of us."
Luke grinned in the dark. "Suits me. You wait here a minute," he said,
disappearing. When he returned he grunted with keen satisfaction, for
Fleming's trousers felt snug and warm. "How many are left?" he asked,
leading the way toward his hidden pack.
"Quigley, Purdy, Gates, an' th' cook."
"Them names don't surprise me," grunted Luke.
"How'd you get so wet?"
"Swimmin'," growled Luke.
"Yore shirt feels dry."
"It is, around th' shoulders; but th' tail feels like th' devil. But
it's wool, all through."
"Was you trailin' Ackerman an' Long Pete?"
"Nope; didn't trail nobody a-tall. How many cows they got?"
"Plenty, d--n 'em!" growled Johnny.
"What you been doin' up here all this time; an' how many have you got?"
"Three; I've been busy."
"Why, you had time to get 'em all."
"Didn't dare do any shootin' till I had to," replied Johnny. "Didn't
want 'em to know I was up here. A gun makes a lot of noise."
Luke chuckled grimly. "Shore! That's what I _allus_ said; an' that's
why I use Colonel Bowie. He don't even whisper."
Johnny snorted with disgust. "Huh! I ain't knifin' or shootin' from
ambush. There's _some_ things I won't do!"
"Uppish, huh?" chuckled Luke. "Well, young man; mebby ambushin' ain't
yore style, but I feels free to remark that it's mine in any game like
this. Them pants feel good. That river's gettin' colder every year."
"River!" ejaculated Johnny, pausing in his surprise. "What river?"
"Deepwater, of course. How many rivers do you reckon we got out here?"
"Th' devil!" muttered Johnny. "Say! When did you leave th' ranch?"
"'Bout three o'clock. I'd 'a' been here sooner, only I hoofed it from
th' river. Cayuses can't go where a man can; they make a lot of noise,
an' a man sticks up too cussed prominent in a saddle. They ain't worth
a cuss in this kind of country when trouble's afoot."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" grunted Johnny.
"Pull up; here we are," said Luke, stopping and bending over some
rocks, which he rolled aside. "Rocks are reg'lar telltales. They has a
dark side an' a light side; an' th' deeper they're set in th' ground,
th' bigger th' dark side is. When you want to cache with 'em, you picks
them that sets _on_ th' ground; an' you don't turn 'em wrong side
up, neither. Then a little sand used right will fix things so that
only me or an Injun can tell that anything's been moved. Here's yore
ca'tridges an' tobacco. Tote 'em yoreself."
"Much obliged. But how did you find me so cussed quick?" demanded
Johnny, breaking open the boxes and distributing their contents about
his person.
"Smelled you," chuckled Luke, fixing the pack on his back.
"Yo're an old liar!" retorted Johnny. "Tell me about it."
"Can't; there ain't nothin' to tell," replied Luke, winking at the sky.
"It's just experience, instinct, brains, knowin' how, an' a couple more
things. Us old-timers done better'n that, forty year ago. I'm glad to
get my hand in ag'in; punchin' cows shore does spoil a man. Now, you
know this layout; where we goin' now? An' what you goin' to do with
that four-laigged nuisance?"
"Put her in a draw east of here. She'll stay where I leave her."
"Then she ain't no fe-male. It just can't be did. I know 'em!"
"You an' our Pete oughta get acquainted with each other," chuckled
Johnny. "You fellers has th' same ideas 'bout some things."
"Foreman, or owner?"
"Just a plain puncher."
"He oughta be th' foreman; he's got sense. I buried one, an' left two
more. You can't fool me about th' sex."
"Yo're a reprobate. Come on, Pepper," said Johnny, whistling to the
horse, who heeled like a dog. "It'll be light purty soon, an' we want
to hide this cayuse."
"It's yore say-so; I'll string along, ready to chip."